BRAPA in ..... A NICE BIT OF SQUIRREL ON THE WIRRAL
19 hours ago
8 min read
Saturday 1st August 2026
The Daddy BRAPA close season of summer fun continued in Merseyside, hopping on the Merseyrail at Liverpool Central for our annual trip across (under?) the river......
Merseyside LOVES a Wetherspoons more than most areas (there's a lazy joke in there about unemployed 'Spoons punters / Scousers / Woolybacks which I'm definitely not going to make cos I'm nice and NOT lazy).
A 'Spoons in every port. And Hoylake, possibly a one time port, had a pre-emptive one to accompany my required tick, so that was handy.
After all, Hoylake Lights is named after a famous lighthouse. We sat next to the painting. You can see it below. Nice. Not so nice is an arse-scratching degenerate in a shirt which revealing he installs heating systems pushing in front of us at the bar. Because he spoke in a comedy accent, we were forced to let it go like "ho ho, great banter there, la, come 'ead". Every 'Spoons is VERY pre-emptive as you probably know by now, the Peerless on top form, and this was neat and tidy enough to make the cut, either this year or sometime before I die. Two old women ate fish and chips despite it being like 10am which to me, is inhumane. On the coast or not.
A short walk around the breezy archipelago below skies bluer than a suicidal Evertonian, bang on noon so our pub was just opening up .....
Beauty! Plasterers Arms, Hoylake (3557 / 6348) where have you been all my Wirraly ticking life? I'd lost a pub overnight (careless!) because Bridlington's 3B's micropub had finally relocated to its new address but such multi-room corridored joy was the consolation prize I needed, and a sign that today was going to be one of the stand out days of our summer. Purple Moose, pheasant & mushroom crisps (hang on, the beer is Purple Moose, the crisps are Pheasant and mushroom, moose crisps would be weird) solidified the experience. An unnecessarily modern sound system behind Dad's left earlobe, and a quirky jolly guy from Rochdale complete a happy scene. Dad thought the ceiling was made from mesh nets but it was the reflection from beer mirrors. NOT drunk already? Rochdale guy, who I thought might linger too long, abruptly leaves us. Turns out he's a special type of extreme ticker - pub rooms. And this pub had a snug he needed to tick. And I thought I was mad!
Next stop Heswall, which despite a visit last year has yielded two new ticks and of course, a pre-emptive Wetherspoons. Again, we got the 'Spoons out of the way first .....
Prense Well, Heswall felt considerably less pre-emptive than the Hoylake edition. Almost Devonian in its 'Spoonie ineptness #StillScarred. The carpet only covers about 40% of the floor space, so it feels very airy, modern and half-built. Car showroom-esque. Staff are half-arsed and it takes us (and everyone else) an age to get their cheeky bevvies in. When I come down from the loo, like a less creepy Matthew Kelly, Dad is still waiting and looking bereft. The sight of Thornbridge Japiur consoles me - just an 'arf though, I'm not a monster. It drank like a 2025 summer throwback when every 'Spoons was keeping it 5* NBSS. Tears of nostalgia in my eyes whenever I remember Middleton, Bognor Regis and Chesterfield. And not many people can say that. Kids career around due to poor parenting, and I'm glad to get gone.
Let's get to our second tick proper ......
With the only other customers leaving at the sight this BRAPA invasion (sensible fellas), all was quiet at Bow-Legged Beagle, Heswall (3558 / 6349). This mini-chain of local micros has never impressed me previously. Not 'Ale Hub' levels of shite however, and I'm forced to reflect that much of my misery has been a lack of seating space rather than anything the pub's done wrong. No such problem today. Dad's got an eye for the crisps once more, and despite today being Yorkshire Day, he controversially enquires about the Lancashire Crisp range. Black Pudding & English Mustard please! Dad has a loud rant in front of our affable host about my proclivity for 'weird' flavours .... ALRIGHT THEN Mr Ready Salted 90% of the time, Salt & Vinegar 5%, Cheese & Onion 5%!! Jeez!! I then criticise the Weekend Project stout pump clip for not looking stouty enough with its serene beach scene and the poor guy looks at me like 'nothing I can do about that pal!' A lady comes in looking for a lost jacket, amazing accent, even better than Heating Systems twerp. I have a weird supernatural experience half way through - I'm just quietly sat there tapping away at my phone when suddenly, I sense Dad has suddenly got up and rushed towards the staircase where the loos are at the top of. I look up, but he's sat stock still. I tell him, and he said he'd been envisioning going up there at that exact moment! Had I witnessed his soul momentarily departing his physical body? Can a soul go for a piss and leave your body at the table? Would be very handy for BRAPA if so.
Time for our second Heswall tick ......
The entranceway flooring, which reminded me of the most never-ending edition of Blockbusters EVER (gimme a Valium please Bob), was the 'architectural' highlight of Harry Beswick, Hewsall (3559 / 6350). A Hyde's pub, which 90% of the time means dull dining aesthetic, though there are a few scattered around Greater Manchester which still retain a boozery outlook. Their food menus always pique Daddy BRAPA's interest. THAT cheese pie before Wrexham last season STILL haunts me. The two packets of crisps had obviously only expanded his appetite, and he comes back from a secret squirrel bar mission full of glee ....after a throwaway comment I'd made a few mins before, he's got the baked Camemberts in! It's amazing, I'm soon singing his praises. The perfect snack. Despite the weird 'hot honey' side, very much the salted caramel / nduja sausage / Aberdeen Angus of 2026! Neither of us are sure what it contributes. Still, early days. The Sorba Thomas of foodstuffs. Then we whizz off 20 mins to Heswall station and I'm seriously doubting we have time to catch this train even if we leg it, when Dad realises he's left his bag in the pub, so we dash back, and I think it's probably just as well!
Then things get really farcical. We call up an Uber, lurk around inside the pub waiting.
I go upstairs for a wee, Dad says to meet him outside because it is imminent, and just as I open the door, the taxi pulls up so I'm straight inside in one fluid (so to speak) movement .....
But the driver seems like it's news to him that we want to go to Bidston station, which is strange but we go with it. But when we arrive, we realise we've got in someone else's taxi instead oops, this isn't even an Uber.
Well, we all have a good laugh cos, Merseyside innit, and cross over back into the 'Pool for the remainder of our ticks.
In a newly invented area of the city called the Baltic Triangle (well, I'd never heard of it before despite going to the Baltic Fleet plenty of times) comes Love Lane Brewery Bar & Kitchen (3560 / 6251). A gigantor, more cavernous than the Cavern Club and buzzing with life. There are 40th birthday celebrations happening on the balcony although most of the folk look 60 which is nice. The staff are chatty, they love York (I wanna meet someone who hates it), and explain Baltic triangles to me like I'm a three year old making his Liverpool debut. You can't actually see the full Higson's range for Lenny the Liver Bird, top bar blocking mate! I pick the stout. Smoother than Patrick Berger is his prime. Dad picks some hazy funkster. More wobbly than a Ronnie Rosenthal open goal at Southampton. Overhead air ducts are 'Spoons / Prisoner Cell Block H chic. Dad makes a mental note to bring his band of David's here on a forthcoming day out.
Time to head back towards the cruel centre, apprehensive because we've been in Liverpool on a sunny Saturday afternoon before and every pub/bar can be rammed to the point of discomfort.
According to Google Maps, we were teetering right on the brink of what is deemed 'true centre' when Dad spies a pub I'd mentioned as a potential pre-emptive, a clever #PubMan mentioning it in the tickers chat sometime in late 2025 so I wrote it 'in the margin'. It'd be rude not to, wouldn't it?
Had we encountered a Bold Street timeslip without realising? Because if we'd enjoyed Love Lane, we're positively purring at Monro's, Liverpool. A 'reimagined 100 year old Dublin pub' no less. They even have the Peyton Arms Stoke Lyne curated cobwebs for true William Butler Yeats mysticism. Two deep at the bar doesn't seem to matter as everyone's a gentle ethereal soul with zero pub presence and the staff pro-active in shouting over heads to those at the back. Like us. I shouldn't be surprised I like this so much as it is part of the 1936 pub company. Burgeoning around Liverpool in recent times. There pub styles so exciting and unique that Black Country Ales (who I like to champion) are Ember-esque by comparison. Their Red Lion impressed me when it made a GBG debut a couple of years back, they brought the wonderful Vines back from the brink. There'll be more to tick I'm sure, just hope they can keep this freshness and originality because people love to sneer at any 'chain', however minor and well intentioned. Probably the same people who love to push the narrative of pub decline rather than success stories, usually oldies who like to gatekeep 'proper pubs' as something only their generation were allowed to enjoy, but I'm going into essay rant mode here so let me shut up and move on.
To end with, an actual tick also from the very same 1910 Fruitgum Company .....
Dad wasn't looking like a stuffed toad for long because St Peter's Tavern, Liverpool (3561 / 6252) is his pub of the day and he's now making even more mental notes and actual physical ones in his phone to ensure his David gang (+ bonus Bernard) get the best Scouse day out imaginable the following Thursday. A former church, but what a conversion! I doubt you'd guess this was done by the same folk as Monro's if you hadn't been told. I try to pose at the altar but I'm not holy enough. 10% cheeky CAMRA discount too, don't mind if I do, YOINK! Too drunk by now to remember any intricacies, My Elusive Dream from Black Lodge whoever they are drank godly, so it was all back to Lime Street for a triple egg & cress and Capri Sun before the train home. No need for the traditional Crown Hotel pop-in, our beer appetite was sated.
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